


The Difference Between Angels and Englishmen

by ArchangelUnmei



Series: Six Points [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, Humor, M/M, Music, Painting, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-11
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis Bonnefoy is a graduate student, studying art at a university in London. He never expected to run into (literally) a med student who would become his best friend and greatest enemy and maybe, possibly, if they both get out of denial, something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I've actually been working on this one for several months and it keeps growing, so I thought I'd go ahead and throw the first part up. I know where it's going and my goal is to get it done over Christmas break, but we'll see how that goes.
> 
> The original inspiration was a combination of the amazing AU fic _[Sign a New Agreement With iTunes](http://nuitdenovembre.livejournal.com/2322.html)_ , by Nuitdenovembre, and me deciding I wanted to try and capture the _real_ university experience in fic form. My betas claim I succeeded. We'll see.
> 
> Also, I should probably warn that it's already spawning sequels and side-stories focusing on other couples and characters. Yeah. This is gonna be a big one.

They meet at the center of a whirlwind, or perhaps it's just the library and the whirlwinds are their own, four crazy years of mounting debt and parties and term papers and all nighters.

They run into each other - literally - books and papers falling to the ground in a clatter only dwarfed in sound by Arthur's fervent swearing. Francis crouches to sort out his papers, ignoring the freshman (surely he's a freshman, isn't he?) until he picks up an organic chemistry book that definitely isn't his and Arthur snatches it out of his hands with a snarl.

They go their separate ways, and it isn't until two days later when he's sorting through his notes that Francis comes across a sheaf of papers held together by a folded corner, lists of formula written in what at first appears to be ancient runes until he looks closer and realizes it is only math. It takes him nearly as long to find the name, scribbled in the top corner fold in handwriting that seems to be trying to slant eight directions at once, _Arthur Kirkland_.

This is how it begins.

Francis tracks him down through the campus directory (thank God Kirkland isn't a common name around here, and these days neither is Arthur) and waits outside of Arthur's anatomy lab. They go for coffee so they can sort through their mixed up notes and worksheets.

"Bloody poofter, figures you'd be an art major," Arthur says, and Francis chooses to think that's an implied compliment to his fashion sense.

"And you," he counters evenly, tapping one finger against the papers on the table between them and their lattés, "I never would have imagined someone like you would be a med student."

Arthur snarls and sweeps the papers off and into his bag, standing with a jerk to storm out and leave Francis behind with two lattés and the idle observation that Arthur has just walked off with his notes on Van Gogh.

The next time they see each other, there's a party and booze and Alfred laughing hysterically between them. Francis has a headache and says so; he only came because Matthew had given him The Eyes and begged him (Francis) not to leave him (Matthew) to be the only sane person there.

So Francis excuses himself to go out onto the fire escape and have a smoke, ignoring the two people (possibly two men, possibly a man and a slightly butch girl, it's so hard to tell in this light) who'd thought that same fire escape would be a good place to have a bit of a snog.

When he returns inside the noise of the music hits him like a solid wall, and he thinks about finding Matthew and making his apologies before escaping, possibly citing a test he has tomorrow or some other such rubbish. But before he has the chance Arthur stumbles out of the crowd, falling practically into Francis's arms.

He reeks of alcohol, and Francis wrinkles his nose as Matthew slides out of the crowd, spouting apologies and _he lives in your building, Francis,_ (that's news to him) and _can't you please make sure he gets home all right?_ And Francis agrees because it's Matthew who asked, but he regrets it once he's out in the chilly night air having to support a staggering Arthur all the way home.

And it turns out that Arthur has forgotten his room number and may or may not have forgotten his keys, and if he'd not been keeping Arthur from staggering into the street Francis would have thrown up his hands and been done with him. But as it is his hands are full. And he wonders, as he bullies and prods Arthur into the lift, if that saying about puppies following you home is true.

~*~

When Arthur wakes, it's to light shining in his eyes around the pounding in his head, and the realization that this isn't his room unless someone decided to replace his Rolling Stones poster with something weird in too many colors that may or may not be a Warhol print. There's a note taped to his forehead, and after a minute of trying to read it cross-eyed it occurs to him to pull it off and take a look at it.

 _Get out of my apartment, rosbif._

Arthur bristles and crumples the note up, tossing it across the room. He sits up, trying to will his head to stop spinning and his stomach to stay in place. He's still wearing the jeans and shirt he was last night, and he vaguely recalls leaning against someone's arm as he staggered home, but wherever he is, the apartment seems to be empty now.

Class books are lined up on the bookshelf beside the desk, a stack of larger, heavier art books on top is the first clue to the owner of this bed. Clothes are flung over the back of the chair; jeans and sweatshirts and a leather jacket that Arthur recognizes after a moment as his own. The entire apartment smells faintly of paint and turpentine and cologne, and Arthur wrinkles his nose as he gets up to stalk out of the bedroom. It _had_ to be the French bloke who'd hauled him home, but Arthur doesn't see much of a point in throwing a hissy when there isn't anyone around to notice it.

The paint on the walls is peeling and the floorboards creak under his feet, but there's a large bank of windows facing out onto the street. Arthur knows nothing about painting, but he knows that north windows give good light. Sure enough, there's an easel set up under them, and Arthur finds that he's curious, since Francis will never know he looked.

He detours around furniture older than he is and skirts the tiled area of the kitchen, approaching the easel. It's a painting, obviously, finished enough that Arthur can tell it's going to be a shapely woman with a halo of golden curls and bright blue eyes. A bookshelf beside the easel has been commandeered into a table, holding a disorganized spill of paint tubes and palettes and a crystal flower vase holding a whole bouquet of brushes.

Arthur shakes his head and helps himself to Francis's kitchen, scowling fiercely at the lack of proper tea. After stomping about a bit he catches sight of the clock and realizes he has class in forty minutes and none of his books. He quickly grabs his jacket and boots, wallet and keys, though he makes a note of Francis's apartment number as he slams the door behind him and runs upstairs to his own.

They don't run into each other much after that, their schedules run almost counter to each other. Francis is a graduate student, it turns out, and he has classes and workshops, teaches one of the undergrad painting classes and spends most of his free time working on his masters' project. Arthur has classes and labs and practices and performances with the band, and he shadows at the local children's hospital whenever he manages a free afternoon.

But two days after he wakes in Francis's bed, Arthur leaves a plate of homemade scones outside his door in silent apology for Francis having to drag his drunk arse home. The morning after that, Arthur opens his door to find the same plate of scones with a note on top in looping, elegant handwriting.

He starts swearing, eyebrows drawing down into a fuzzy thundercloud as he reads the note.

 _Dearest Arthur,_ it reads in what must be Francis's handwriting. _I understand you must be upset at awaking in my bed without the blessing of my presence, but please refrain from delivering poison to my doorstep. Lots of love, Francis_

 **FROG** , reads the sticky note that Arthur leaves on Francis's door on his way to band practice.

And maybe it would have stayed there, with Arthur and Francis as loose acquaintances who occasionally exchanged insults when they met in the lift, except that they have another common friend besides Alfred and Matthew, and he is entirely to blame for what comes next.

~*~

Gilbert Beilschmidt plays bass in Arthur's band and, as far as Arthur can tell, not much else. He lives in his brother's basement, works as a mechanic at a local garage, and occasionally disappears on long, wandering journeys to who knows where. Arthur views him in the same pragmatic way that most people would see wayward puppies. He'd come home when he got hungry enough, and if he didn't it probably meant someone else had adopted him.

Gilbert has just come back from one of these week-long jaunts, and he and Arthur are hanging out in Gilbert's basement room. They're relaxing, passing a joint back and forth as Arthur tries to concentrate on his physiology book, which is admittedly counter-productive. Gilbert is busy rambling on about some chick he slept with in Prague, so Arthur doesn't bother to pay attention. He lets his mind and eyes wander, studying Gilbert's ever changing clutter of world memorabilia, fragments of a hundred unidentifiable cultures.

"Gil," he says suddenly, interrupting Gilbert's impassioned description of the girl's breasts. "Where did that painting come from?"

Gilbert twists around in his beanbag chair to see what Arthur's looking at. The painting isn't very big, depicting a girl with golden curls standing in a field of white lilies. She wears a shapeless brown dress and carries a silver shield, a gust of painted wind revealing a long line of muscled leg, the outline of a rounded breast. She's facing away from the painter, looking up toward the sun, but Arthur is sure her eyes must be blue. He's sure he's seen her somewhere before.

"A friend of mine painted it," Gilbert shrugs, flopping back into the beanbag and taking a long drag on the joint. "He's nuts over some French girl, she's practically all he paints."

Arthur frowns, feeling something like inevitability creeping up on him. "Grad student at the local university? Perpetual stubble? No taste in tea or scones?"

Gilbert blinks at him stupidly for a minute, then grins, wide and bright like the kid Arthur often thinks he is inside. "Hey, yeah, I didn't know you knew Frannie."

Arthur tries to protest that _no, I **don't**_ , but Gilbert will hear none of it. "You should invite him to come see the band!" Gilbert grins and talks right over Arthur's protests, leaning forward as though to convince Arthur through proximity alone. "Come on, Artie, he'd love it!"

"Don't call me Artie," Arthur snaps for the 283rd time in their friendship. (He hates being called Artie enough that he keeps track. He's determined that if the count ever reaches a thousand he'll drown Gilbert in the Thames.) "And I am _not_ inviting that frog anywhere. And neither are you!" he adds quickly, seeing the look on Gilbert's face, like a German Cheshire Cat. He resigns himself, knowing it's probably futile. A lot of things are, when it comes to Gilbert.

That proves to be the case now, too.

The Saturday after the next, Francis finds himself dragged to a local pub by Alfred and Matthew. (Mostly Alfred, to be fair. Francis had grabbed Matthew on the way out the door in a sadistic desire to not suffer alone.)

Alfred's babbling on like a lunatic, so Francis and Matthew have both mostly tuned him out as they stand in line and wait for the doors to open. Francis feels oddly out of place in his tidy jeans and jumper. Matthew's wearing a university hoodie, but Alfred and nearly everyone else in line are wearing torn jeans and faded t-shirts with illegible logos, and leather and denim jackets that have seen far better days. Francis wonders again just what exactly he's doing here. He shoves his hands into his pockets, fingering the crumpled note that rests there.

 _Come to the Galloping Rabbit Pub with Alfred next Saturday_ , it reads in anonymous but vaguely familiar handwriting. _You won't regret it_.

Francis looks at the poster hanging beside the door. It's an abstract; charcoal grays with splashes of yellows and pale greens and what appears to be a skeletal lion, with _ßrïtøn_ printed across the top. Francis snorts. Musicians. What an atrocity of language. He doesn't even want to think about how that might really be pronounced.

But now the doors are opening, and Alfred grabs Francis's arm to drag inside. Matthew tries to melt back into the crowd and slip away, but Francis shoots him a dark look and grabs him by the hood to prevent escape.

Inside, the pub is actually pretty nice, or would be if it wasn't packed to bursting with rowdy uni students. The lights are relatively dimmed, wood paneling on the walls making it seem even darker. They pass several tables, but Alfred refuses to let them claim one, instead dragging them up to the very front of the area roped off for the band. There's a slight stage there, really not much more than a step up. A drum set is assembled at the back, a keyboard off to one side with a microphone suspended over it. Another, free-standing mike is set up at the front.

Francis can feel the pub filling up behind them, the press of bodies and increasing volume of voices. He exchanges a long glance with Matt, both of them plotting Alfred's demise. Alfred is oblivious to their conspiracy, and mercifully soon there's a rustle from the side of the stage as the band files on.

The drummer looks about Francis's age, with a bright, mischievous grin and far too much gel in his hair. He's bare chested as he seats himself behind his drums, showing off a nipple ring and a tattoo of a battle axe across one shoulder. He looks familiar, but Francis is distracted from trying to place him by the entrance of the next band member.

The keyboardist, to Francis's surprise and delight, is a woman. Red ribbons make rivers of color through her brown hair, a black and red and silver corset of leather and lace contrasting beautifully with her creamy skin. Francis wonders if she would let him paint her. It doesn't hurt that she's wearing tight black leather pants.

The next band member to step up onto the stage has a black and white bass guitar slung across his back, and his smirk makes Francis start in surprise and recognition. Pale skin, hair like bleached bone (though Francis knows it's natural), red eyed that gleam almost orange in the stage lights. It's been awhile since they've been able to get together, but Francis would know Gilbert anywhere. Suddenly, the handwriting on the note is making a lot more sense.

Gilbert meets his eyes and laughs at him, swinging his bass around those slim hips to tune it. He licks his lips teasingly, then his eyes flick sideways and Francis realizes he's missed the entrance of the lead guitarist.

He looks over, eyes sweeping across a silver guitar with a Union Jack sticker slapped on it, and then _up_ , into eyes the exact color of grass in spring, the color Francis can never get right in paintings because it's nearly impossible to mix. Francis feels caught in those eyes now, drawn in, and it takes him a good minute and Matthew nudging his elbow before Francis notices the furry eyebrows above the eyes and realizes he is staring.

Unfortunately, he can't seem to stop. Tearing his eyes away from Arthur's face only makes it worse. He notes things about Arthur's appearance in sections, in little flashes. Black combat boots, with heels. A ring in his nose (left nostril, why hadn't Francis noticed the hole before?). Tight black jeans. A white oxford shirt only held closed by two buttons, showing pale sections of chest and stomach. A black and red tartan waistcoat, left hanging open. Fingernails painted black. Jewelry, something silver on a doubled black cord around his neck, black and silver cuffs on his wrists.

Francis finds himself wondering if perhaps Arthur might have an identical twin, because surely this isn't the same surly med student he's come to know. Arthur seems younger somehow, with his hair tousled and wearing tight pants.

Arthur is staring too, startled to find that damn frog standing right at the front of the crowd. He keeps staring, mouth hanging open slightly, until Gilbert pegs him in the cheek with his spare guitar pick. He whips around to glare, lips curling back in a snarl, and Gilbert just snickers at him. He makes a rather sarcastic gesture, _Our audience awaits_ , and Arthur feels his cheeks flush.

He glances to his other side - Nik looks confused, and Eliza raises her eyebrows at him questioningly - then returns to face forward. (He's going to _**kill**_ Gilbert later, even if that does leave them short a bassist. There wasn't any need to invite Francis anywhere, and anyway, Arthur's sure he's not a rock'n'roll sort of bloke.) Arthur squares his jaw and resolutely blocks the Frenchman from his mind.

"We're ßrïtøn," he calls into the mike, though as always he pronounces it just _Briton_ , "So get ready to be blown away!"

Over the cheers of the crowd, Eliza hits her first chord so Arthur and Gilbert can take their notes from it, and Nik taps off the opening beat on the edge of his snare. Following tradition that dates back to when it was just him and Nik banging away in the Dane's garage, Gilbert counts them off in German.

"Ein! Zwei! Ein zwei drei!"

And then they're off, and once the music begins it's easier for Arthur to relax and forget the audience, his world narrowing down to the pulse of the drums, the underlying bass and accompanying keyboard, the thrum of the guitar in his hands; the music a living, wild thing only Arthur can tame.

It's like being high, sometimes, where everything is right in the world. Everything works, everything makes _sense_ when he's playing, when he's singing, the music weaving the entire world into a cohesive whole.

In this dreamlike state, he doesn't so much as falter a note when his eyes drift open and he finds himself staring right at Francis. Arthur's rather surprised he's still here, actually. And rather than looking vaguely bored (like Matthew), or trying to start a mosh pit (like Alfred), Francis looks almost in awe. He's gazing up at the band with a look of soft wonder, as though he can't quite believe music like this is coming out of four raggedy young adults.

Arthur bares his teeth in a sharp, feral grin, leans into the mike and _sings_.

The show doesn't last nearly long enough for Arthur; it never does. Afterward he slings his guitar around to his back and steps off the stage, accepting the ale someone offers him and still swaggering from the hum of music in his blood. He spends a few minutes thanking people for coming and talking to his fans, up until the point Alfred pounces him and Arthur starts yelling at him to watch out for his guitar. When he finally manages to shove Alfred off and look back, Francis is still standing there chatting amicably with Gilbert and Eliza.

"Nikki!" Gilbert raises his voice above the crowd, waving the drummer over. Nik grins widely when he sees Francis, leaning over the slap him on the back, and even from here Arthur can hear the enthusiastic greeting. He hangs back, observing and wondering how Gilbert and Nik know Francis. They don't exactly seem like the types who would mix in the same social circles.

Francis talks with his hands (how like a Frenchman), making broad, expansive gestures as he speaks. His eyes are lit up, sparkling in excitement, and Arthur's struck with a sudden curiosity about what he's saying. Trying to be unobtrusive and not knock into anyone with his guitar, Arthur slides a few steps closer. It helps that Francis isn't bothering to try and be quiet.

"That was _magnifique_ ," he's saying, slipping into French with an easy grin sideways at Eliza. "The way you blended together and didn't overpower each other, you must have been playing together for a long time, non?"

"Almost three years," Nik drawls, leaning easily on Gilbert's shoulder, sweat from the performance gleaming on his bare chest, making his hair dark at the roots with damp. "We _told_ you we formed a band, Frannie."

"Yes, and because it involved you two I didn't think it was worth coming to see," Francis teases gently, and Eliza muffles a laugh, looking back and forth between the three.

"How did you three meet?" she asks, and Arthur nearly grins because it means he can get an answer without having to ask himself.

"High school," Gilbert and Francis say at the same time, and Arthur rolls his eyes. _It figures_.

"I still blame you both for getting suspended," Nik sighs, but he doesn't clarify, just raises a hand in greeting. "Yo, Arthur."

Arthur wants to ask, but then decides he doesn't want to know. He can imagine the sort of thing it would take to get the three of them suspended, and he would really prefer to keep plausible deniability. So he just steps forward to join the circle.

They talk and laugh, up until the point where Matthew materializes out of the crowd at Francis's elbow and tells him Alfred's drunk and trying to beat up the bartender again. Francis groans and Arthur yelps, and they set off to rescue Alfred before he gets them all permabanned.

It's interesting, Arthur notices later, how easily Francis fits in.

~*~

It's about three cups of coffee past midnight, a few weeks later. Francis shows up outside Arthur's door wearing sweat pants and a paint splattered t-shirt, carrying a pillow and a toothbrush and looking weary.

"My neighbor," he explains when Arthur opens the door. "Will not shut up."

Arthur raises an eyebrow, leaning against the door frame in a pair of Union Jack boxers and a scrub top. "Loud music?" He's not as perturbed as he might otherwise be, because he was actually still awake, working on a lab report due in seven hours (give or take).

" _ **Rap**_ music."

Arthur winces and steps aside to let him in.

"I'm going to _kill_ her," Francis mutters mutinously as he shuffles inside. "I'm going to spike her tap water with turpentine."

"Don't poison the whole building," Arthur cautions, mostly because he lives in it. He closes the door behind Francis and turns to go back to his desk, leaving Francis to look around the apartment in bemusement.

The layout is basically the same as Francis's downstairs, minus the large window bank. The furniture is just as old, and Francis swears their battered couches must be twins. Where Francis has an easel, stacks of canvases and racks of paints, Arthur has a large desk where he can spread out several books at once and shelves crammed with thick medical texts and what Francis swears is and hopes isn't a human skull. The whole place smells faintly musty, like old books and alcohol and brewing coffee and steeping tea.

Arthur is already back at his desk, flipping through a book with far too many long Latin words for Francis's liking. And Francis is tired. So he drops his pillow onto the couch and wanders into the bathroom to brush his teeth, stealing a squeeze of Arthur's sharp mint toothpaste without bothering to ask. He rinses and spits, then flops on the couch and peers over at Arthur's back. "Bon nuit, Arthur."

Arthur twists to look back at him, then gets up to pad across the room and flip off the overhead light, leaving just the desk lamp shining. "Sleep well, frog."

Francis is just dozing off when a loud bang jerks him awake again and startles a yelp out of him. "What-"

Arthur laughs softly, not bothering to turn around again as he points up at the ceiling. "It's the air compressor on the roof. I think it's older than I am. Go back to sleep."

Francis grumbles that he's more used to the sound of the pipes pinging down on the lower floors, but settles down again and burrows deeper into the blankets.

It takes another hour for Arthur to finish the report, grumbling swearwords under his breath and listening to Francis's soft breathing behind him. But finally he leans back, stretching his arms over his head and wincing as his spine cracks in protest. He drains the last of the tea from the mug sitting by his elbow and makes a face. It's gone cold.

He sighs again, glaring over at the pile of reading he still has to do for his other classes. So much for sleep.

The next morning, Francis wakes by rolling off the couch when his phone buzzes in the pocket of his sweats. He lands on the floor with a yelp and a thud, and lays there blinking in disorientation with his phone vibrating under his hip. He finally has the presence of mind to dig it out, rolling over onto his back and holding it above him as though that angle will lend more answers. He still has to spend another moment staring uncomprehendingly while his brain fully boots up.

He has a text.

 _Where the fuck r u?_ it reads, and Francis has to smile. He only knows one person who's likely to use fully spelled swear words and chatspeak in the same text.

He checks the time and groans. No wonder Sadiq's texting, so much for making class. Luckily, not one of the ones he's supposed to teach, but he does have a private lesson in an hour.

He sits up, looking around. Ah, right, Arthur's apartment. There's a dusty sunbeam filtering through the window, gleaming golden off Arthur's hair where he's asleep at his desk, cheek pillowed on a diagram of the human cardiovascular system.

Francis sighs and shakes his head, levering himself off the floor and retrieving the blanket from the couch to drape around Arthur's shoulders. He mumbles, but doesn't wake, and Francis has to smile. He looks so peaceful when he's asleep, almost _cute_ when he's not scowling or yelling. Francis can't help but brush his fingers through Arthur's springy hair briefly.

He steals the last of the coffee in the pot on the counter, knocking it back black and cold and making terrible noises at the taste that completely fail to wake Arthur. Poor med student. Francis, being a warm hearted human being, puts on a fresh pot to brew before he leaves.

When he wakes later to the smell of fresh coffee, Arthur wonders fuzzily if Francis showing up at his door was all a dream. But in the bathroom, he has to stop and stare at the strange toothbrush sharing the cup with his own. It's weird. Arthur's lived on his own ever since he managed to fight his way out from under his brothers and leave his parents' house. He's not used to the thought of sharing a bathroom with anyone anymore. It gives him a sort of fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach, staring at their paired toothbrushes nestled in the same cup beside the sink, with its drippy faucet and rust stains.

Obviously, indigestion. Arthur decides all-nighters aren't good for him.

Francis could walk the path between his apartment and the art building in his sleep, and today he nearly does. His feet move on autopilot, stopping briefly at the coffee shop on campus to get some _proper_ caffeine before breezing into the studio an hour and a half after he should have been there.

Sadiq looks up from the sculpture he's working on as Francis comes in.

"You look like shit," he comments casually. "Get laid?"

Francis makes a face at him, going to flop behind the desk in the corner that the five art department graduate student aides have to share. He sets his bag and portfolio down, wrinkling his nose at the chaotic state of the desktop. "Who was in here earlier?"

"Uh," Sadiq scratches at his beard, ignoring the streak of clay it leaves. "Natalia, I think." He grins at Francis's shudder of horror. "She's gone. Passed her on her way out."

"Thank God," Francis mutters, stretching his arms over his head.

Sadiq chuckles, going back to his sculpture. To Francis, it just looks like a lump of whitish clay, but he has faith that Sadiq will be able to turn it into a naked woman within a few days. "You never answered my question, Fran. Get laid?"

Francis debates throwing something at him, and decides it's too much effort. "No. Spent the night on a friend's couch."

"Your neighbor again?" Sadiq asks. Francis just nods, watching his fingers work the clay, brown skin turning dusty, muddy white. "Your friend cute?"

Francis chokes on the mouthful of coffee he's just taken.

"Must be a _good_ friend, to put up with you for a night," Sadiq keeps talking right over Francis's sputtering. "I know I wouldn't."

"You would too," Francis manages, "You have before."

"Have I?" Sadiq grins. "Must'a been drunk."

Francis's (rather profane) answer in French is interrupted by a knock on the studio's door.

"Come in!" Sadiq calls out cheerfully, and Francis looks up as the door opens.

The girl who pokes her head in is only in her late teens, and looks even younger than that. Her short blond hair is tied with lace ribbons, and she's wearing a pink and write dress that can only be described as _fluffy_. She's wearing sensible shoes, at least, and carrying her portfolio.

"Mister Bonnefoy?" she asks, uncertain whether or not she's interrupted something, and Francis just smiles at her.

"It's fine, Lili, come in. Haven't I told you to call me Francis?"

"Oh, I couldn't!" She steps into the studio, apparently not noticing Sadiq snickering. "My brother says it wouldn't be right to get too friendly with my tutor."

"I'll just bet he does," Francis rolls his eyes. He's met Vash once or twice, and always wonders how such a prickly guy can have such a sweet sister. He ushers Lili over to the easel set up under the windows. She starts to unzip her portfolio, then glances over at Sadiq uncertainly.

He waves one clay covered hand at her. "Don't mind me, Miss Zwingli. You can even tell your brother you had a chaperon today."

Lili smiles, but Francis flips Sadiq off when her back is turned. He'll never understand why everyone treats him like such a pervert. Sure, he's slept around (okay, a _lot_ ), but it's not like he'll jump anything that moves.

Francis loves women, but in a generic sense, an _artistic_ sense. He loves painting the perfect curve of a rounded breast, the grace inherent in a delicate wrist. But the truth is, the _truth_ is, outside of paintings he's really not sure what he'd ever do with a woman. Not in a long-term relationship, anyway. They're so... flighty. Prone to loud outbursts of emotion. Like Arthur.

This brings to mind the mental image of Arthur in a long dress and a curly wig, face flushed in righteous anger. Perhaps with pigtails. Francis snickers, making a mental note to draw that later, just so he'll have something to laugh at during final exams.

Lili gives him a confused, curious look at his snickering, and with an effort Francis schools his expression and turns his attention back to the tutoring session.

The rest of the day passes in peace.

~*~

They're both half-drunk, and Francis is chain smoking. They both have books open across their knees for appearances' sake, but it's too dark out on the fire escape for them to be doing any reading. Instead, they're watching the smoke from Francis's cigarettes curl up toward the stars and discussing attraction.

"He's so cute!" Matthew moans, sounding more despairing than anything else. "And hot! And he keeps flirting with me whenever I go in!"

"And the problem is...?" Francis raises an eyebrow, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the darkness of the alley below and digging into his pocket for another.

"Al hates him," Matthew hangs his head and trails off into bastardized French (Quebeçois, really) that Francis is compelled to elbow him sharply for. Then he pauses.

"Wait," Francis peers over at him. "Are you talking about the bartender at the Galloping Rabbit? Tall, scar on his forehead, older than Sadiq?"

"Yes," Matthew mumbles. "He's 28."

"And you're 19," Francis's eyebrows creep up.

"That's why Al hates him. That, and we're pretty sure he deals drugs out of the Rabbit."

"Oh," Francis's eyebrows raise further. "Goodness."

"Yeah," Matthew sighs, leaning back against the wall. Then he glances over at Francis. "What about you?"

"Hm?" Francis blows a smoke ring and watches it drift upward, fragmenting against the iron bars and the wires that criss-cross the narrow alley. "What about me?"

"Well, you seem to be spending an awful lot of time with Arthur lately..."

Francis nearly inhales his cigarette. "Why would you even bring that up? It's convenient that we live in the same building."

Matthew rolls his eyes. "You don't have to pretend with me, Francis. You're both really busy. You make time to run into each other."

"I certainly don't!" Francis huffs, though he's not really sure who he's trying to convince. "He's surly and prone to fits of anger, he cannot cook and he drinks like a fish. His apartment is full of dust and moldering books. He is _British_. If anything, I go out of my way to _avoid_ the rosbif."

Matthew shakes his head, but doesn't protest in the face of Francis's scowl. "Whatever you say."

"Please, Matt," Francis sniffs a bit self-righteously. "I may spread my affections far, but I have _standards_."

~*~

Being twenty minutes late for practice earns him a raised eyebrow from Nik, a stern look from Eliza, and a sneer from Gilbert. They want to know where he's been, obviously. Which is understandable, since usually Arthur is the first one there, tuning his guitar and humming whatever fragment of music is running through his head.

"I had to stop in to see the frog and we lost track of time talking," he says absently, concentrating on plugging his guitar into the amp, and doesn't realize how that must sound until Gilbert starts cackling at him. Arthur scowls and bristles, and the next twenty minutes are spent in impassioned argument about why he and Francis are _not friends_ , let alone anything more. It isn't until he begins winding down that he notices none of them are arguing against him. So it's been more like a ranting monologue.

"Fuck my life," Arthur mutters viciously, turning red as Gilbert starts laughing again behind his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, present tense _again_.  
>  Also, I apologize and please correct me if any of the accent marks are wrong (well, more wrong than 'ßrïtøn' is all by itself). My second language is Japanese and I haven't studied French since high school.
> 
> Nik (his full name is Nikolaj) is Denmark, if you hadn't guessed. If you wondered why I didn't use Antonio instead, well... let's just say he's occupied elsewhere.
> 
> Yes, Matthew and Francis were discussing Netherlands there toward the end. Consider it an early bird cameo for the next story in the series.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bring you chapter two, with considerably less Gilbert but with 100% more Tino and Kiku.
> 
> Also a lot later than I promised. Sorry about that. School's busy right now. As always, thanks to my darling Canuck and Limey who serve as betas, especially the Limey since she is forced to endure questions from this silly Yankee such as "What's the difference between a bar, a pub and a tavern" and "What the hell is a jumper?" and most frequently "Your school system makes absolutely no sense."

And then, there's no time to think about anything at all, because there's only three weeks left in the term and one of those is taken up by exams. Arthur realizes quite suddenly late one night that he has a fifteen-page paper due in three days and a lab practical the day after that. Francis spends all his time with his nose in his notes, working out the exam he'll have to give to the classes he teaches, never mind studying for the ones he'll have to take himself. The Italian who lives directly above him starts complaining about the cigarette smoke that constantly drifts up from his fire escape.

They don't see each other, not even passing in the halls. They're both far too busy. Francis sleeps in the art building for three days straight, curled up on the tiny couch in a professor's office. Arthur has to cancel four practices because he can't even find time to pick up his guitar, let alone actually practice. Exams pass in a blur of caffeine and lack of sleep, as they always do. And then the crash, sleeping for 24 hours or more to (kind of) recover before packing to head home for winter hols.

It isn't until Arthur is rushing around, throwing clothes into a bag and yelling at his older sister Erin over the phone that he realizes he hasn't said good-bye to Francis. Then he immediately wonders why the _hell_ it should matter, and his next comment to his sister is perhaps sharper than it should be.

Later, as he runs out the door to catch his train with his scarf flying behind him, he nearly misses the note taped to the outside of his door. He snatches it as he locks up, glances at it just long enough to recognize Francis' handwriting, then stuffs it into his pocket and bolts for King's Cross.

Once he's made his train and settled in for the ride home, he pulls the note out and smooths it across his knee.

 _Friday morning_ , it says at the top, then underneath, _I'm sorry for not stopping in to be sure that exams have not killed you, but my holiday plans have changed at the last minute and I find myself scrambling to keep up. Matt and Al and I are flying out for Montréal tonight._ (Arthur has to stop and blink at that until he remembers Matthew telling him that he and Francis are cousins. He checks his watch - Friday 10pm, they're probably already gone.) _My parents, it seems, are still somewhere in Indonesia, so my aunt and uncle graciously asked me to stay with them over winter break. We should be back in London around the fifth. Joyeux Noël to you, your family and your caterpillars (or do they count as family?) Lots of love, Francis_

Arthur crumples up the note, opens the window of the train, and tosses it out.

~*~

By the time they land in Trudeau International Airport after narrowly missing getting snowed in at JFK in New York (the indirect route had been cheaper than the direct flight from Heathrow, and now Francis knows why. Honestly, just because his passport is in French and carries a residence stamp for the UK, there was no reason to go through his bags three times to make sure he isn't smuggling expensive chocolate or whatever they thought he might have. The United States wasn't even his final destination anyway) Francis and Matthew are both more than ready to kill Alfred.

Francis has flown plenty of times before (he used to visit Matthew, and later Alfred, in Canada for several weeks every summer, after all), but this is the first time he's ever flown in close quarters with Alfred. The fact that Matthew is prepared with ear plugs and a large supply of snacks (Alfred is marginally quieter when he's eating, usually) tells Francis that poor Matthew has had to endure this more than he cares to think about. Alfred had not stopped talking for the _entire flight_ from London to New York, rambling on about everything from his schoolwork to the quiet Asian kid he'd befriended in his psychology class to how hard it is to play rugby in the snow. For the most part, Matthew and Francis both just tune him out and try not to think about how easy it would be to strangle him with his straps to his own backpack.

How 'helpful' he was going through customs in New York doesn't even bear thinking about.

It doesn't get any better when they finally land in Montreal, either. They're barely out of the gate when Alfred takes off running across the concourse like a five-year-old, yelling "Dad, dad!" at the top of his lungs. Matthew and Francis exchange long-suffering looks and grab their bags to follow.

Alfred's father and Matthew's mother are waiting at the end of the concourse, and Stephen Jones is wearing the light-up reindeer Christmas tie that Matthew gave him the first year after they got married when the boys were eight.

("Your new brother is only three days younger than you?" Francis can remember asking from the lofty age of thirteen when he and his parents arrived for the wedding. "You even kind of look alike. You're _always_ going to get mistaken for twins." He was right.)

Alfred flings himself into his father's arms, nearly knocking him over, but he just laughs and picks Alfred up, swinging him around in a wide circle. "Hiya Al!" Matthew's mother just looks amused and side-steps, easily dodging Alfred's swinging legs and moving to put her arms around Matthew and Francis.

"How was your flight?" she asks, and the amused note in her voice reminds Francis of his own mother and tells him that she knows very well what it's like to fly with Alfred. It's been a couple years since he's been able to make it to Canada to see his aunt, and he's shocked to realize that she seems to have shrunk; the last time he saw her they were about the same height, and now he is several centemetres taller.

"Comme ci comme ça, Tante Madeline," he switches to French automatically, making his aunt smile warmly at him and Alfred snort.

They naturally divide off, on the way home, Alfred and his father talking about American football and rugby, Francis and his aunt in the back seat with their heads together speaking French ( _real French!_ , Madeline would sigh happily. _Not Quebeçois!_ ), and Matthew sitting looking out the window at the falling snow with his headphones on, listening to something New Age with a vaguely Celtic sound.

Driving with Uncle Stephen is always something of an adventure, especially with Alfred sitting in the front passenger seat serving as a distraction, and the snow on the roads certainly doesn't help. Francis isn't sure what concerns him more; the driving itself or the fact that no one else in the car seems worried. He's so busy trying to squint out the window to see the lines on the road (would it kill his uncle to turn on the headlights?) that he loses track of the thread of the conversation.

That is, until he catches Arthur's name, and then a sudden silence.

"What?" he asks, belatedly turning his attention back to the interior of the car to find his aunt and uncle both grinning at him, albeit one in the rear view mirror.

"Alfred was just telling us that your new boyfriend is a _doctor_ ," Madeline looks so _pleased_ , and Francis realizes with a sort of sick horror that this _will_ inevitably get back to his mother.

"Med student, not a doctor yet," he answers rather numbly, feeling his cheeks warm. "And he isn't actually my boyfriend."

In the front seat, Alfred coughs something that sounds like 'bullshit', and Francis has to remind himself firmly that he is not a child and it will not accomplish anything to kick the back of Alfred's seat.

On the other side of Madeline, Matthew can't help but sigh a little despite his grin. It's going to be a long three weeks.

~*~

Arthur doesn't particularly like his cousin Peter. The boy is only fifteen, and already a menace to society and eardrums. But Arthur does like it when Peter and his parents come for the holidays, because it means he's no longer the youngest Kirkland in the house.

Arthur hates being the youngest. Especially the youngest of _five_. Being the youngest means everyone gangs up on you (in the case of Ian, Liam and Rhys) or if they aren't ganging up on you, are trying to mess with your personal life and/or pinch your cheeks (in the case of Erin). There's days where he can't decide if he can't stand his brothers or his sister more, but most days he just wishes he were an only child. Francis has no idea how lucky he's got it.

Another upside to his cousin arriving is the fact that Peter also usually causes enough noise and chaos and is suitably distracting that Arthur can escape to his bedroom without anyone making much of a fuss; his sister's trills of "You're getting so _big_ , Petey!" and Ian and Liam exclaiming over the puppy he's brought with him following Arthur up the stairs.

His bedroom is in the attic, and has been since he was about seven and big enough to get up and down the steep stairs without killing himself. He likes it up there, it gives him more privacy, a chance to be warned of someone coming up the stairs before his door gets flung open. He settles on his bed, leaning back into the familiar creak of the headboard, and puts his headphones on to further drown out the noise from two floors down.

Unfortunately, his peace only lasts until dinner time, when Rhys climbs the stairs and leans in the door frame, raising one bushy, sardonic eyebrow at him. "Dinner, runt."

Arthur scowls and debates throwing something at him, but to be honest, out of his brothers he'd rather deal with Rhys than with Ian or Liam. At least Rhys is somewhat sane, if snarky. But then, Arthur can appreciate snark. "Fine," he grouses with a sigh, turning his iPod off and dropping it onto his bedside table. "I'm coming."

"Peter's dog is a menace," Rhys says conversationally as they head downstairs, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Arthur groans, resisting the urge to facepalm. "I hate dogs. Can't he put the bloody thing outside or something?"

Rhys smirks slightly, a faint quirk of lips. "Erin's threatening to lock it down in the basement during dinner. Peter's staying in Liam's room, by the way."

"Thank God," Arthur grunts in relief. They're likely to stay up half the night playing video games and being noisy, but Liam's bedroom is in the basement, a full three floors below Arthur, and hopefully that should muffle it enough for him to sleep.

Dinner is, unfortunately, just as hellish as Arthur expects. He could kill whichever of his relations let Peter and Liam sit next to each other, because they both refuse to shut up. Not for the first time since meeting Alfred, Arthur wonders if Liam might have been swapped around at birth somehow, and renews his conviction to never let Alfred come into contact with him. The noise would be deafening.

Arthur's father and uncle are discussing politics, which Arthur studiously ignores. At the other end of the table, Erin and their mother and aunt are discussing either Christmas fashion or the latest football scores, somehow it's really hard to tell.

Picking at his shepherd's pie, Arthur looks up to discover Ian staring at him from across the table. He bristles out of principle. "What?"

"How are classes going?" Ian asks, trying and partially failing to look innocent, if only because Arthur knows he is _never_ innocent.

"Fine," Arthur answers warily, and wonders if he should start talking about the inner workings of the human digestive tract, just to see if it would put his brothers off their dinner.

"Any big projects coming up?"

"Not really..."

"Met anyone interesting?"

Arthur turns red, abruptly realizing what his eldest brother is fishing for. "Oh come off it, Ian, I don't see you interrogating Liam about _his_ schooling."

"Liam is older," Ian's tone is still bland but his grin is maddening. "He can be trusted to look after himself."

Arthur stares at him. "Really," he says flatly. "We're only seventeen months apart in age, and you think _Liam_ is more mature than _me_. I seem to remember Liam getting his head stuck between the slats of a fence sometime _last summer_."

"Hey-!" Apparently Liam is not entirely as engrossed in his conversation with Peter as he'd seemed. "That was on a dare-!"

"Boys," their mother's voice cuts sharply across the rising noise. "Anyone who causes a fuss will get no dessert."

Rhys, grinning and insufferably smug, is the only one who receives rice pudding that night.

His brothers retaliate later.

~*~

Thoroughly sick of family (though he'll miss his mother's and Erin's cooking, and he has to grudgingly admit that it was unexpectedly nice of Ian to get him what he actually _needs_ for Christmas for once, that is, several new sets of scrubs for his volunteer and residency work) Arthur is more than happy to get back into his apartment and flop onto his couch to enjoy the silence.

He's been back all of ten minutes when he realizes that there is no food in the kitchen and he's starving.

Grumbling all the way, he pulls on his coat and scarf and boots and tromps down the hall to the lift. When it opens on the first floor, he blinks to find himself face to face with Francis, similarly bundled and burdened with several bags. They stare at each other for a moment, and Arthur doesn't get out of the lift. Instead, he grudgingly scoots back to give Francis room to get on, reaching out to take a few of the bags before they fall. (He peers into one. Paint brushes that have no paint on them, so they must be new, a mug with what looks like a reproduction of a Monet on it, a pair of fine black lambskin gloves, Christmas presents all.)

"How was your holiday?" Francis asks, looking over at him as the lift takes them up again. "You visited family, I presume?"

"Yes and I got your bloody note," Arthur scowls at the remembrance, and scowls more when Francis chuckles. "Wanker."

"Hush. If you believe in karma, I believe you will be vindicated to know that I was forced to endure a collective fourteen hours or so in an airplane with Alfred."

This gives Arthur pause, as he remembers various long plane rides on family trips. The only times he and Ian ever get along is when conspiring to strangle, smother or otherwise incapacitate Liam. "...My sympathies."

"Thank you," Francis manages with good grace. The lift opens and both of them walk down the hall, where Francis sets his bags down so he can dig out his keys.

After a moment of mighty internal debate, Arthur clears his throat. "...Look, frog, you obviously just got back so I doubt you have food. I was planning to go grab something to eat, if you want to come."

Francis blinks at him, clearly startled, then smiles and reaches over to ruffle Arthur's hair, making him screech and flail. "Food that did not come from an airport sounds wonderful. Let's put my bags inside and go."

It doesn't occur to either of them how much it looks like a date.

~*~

That spring, their lives are defined more by the time they spend together than when they are apart.

~*~

Spring arrives with a sudden melting of slush and a general increase in songbirds, the cold drizzling fog giving way to warm drizzling rain. The British begin wandering around with vaguely dazed looks on their faces, as though they've just discovered heaven on earth.

Francis doesn't quite understand their fascination. The warmer temperatures are nice, but certainly not anything earth shattering. Certainly not worth the large percentage of British students suddenly wandering about in t-shirts and sandals. He chalks it up to English oddity, shrugs and goes about his day.

He has a break between his classes; between the oil painting class he's taking for the third time for the joy of it and the figure sketching class he's teaching to freshmen who only signed up for the promise of nude models, and decides to run home for lunch. There is actually a sun in the sky today, and a walk would be a nice change after sitting hunched over an easel for the last three hours.

He takes a roundabout path, coat belted loosely around him but not buttoned, hands in his pockets but not gloved. There's a lovely little park just off campus, only a little out of the way back to the apartment. So he heads that way, shoulders unknotting a fraction at the shady paths.

He can't help but chuckle a bit at the amount of dreamy-eyed students sitting on benches or on patches of sunlit grass, soaking in the spring. He shakes his head, terribly amused, absently keeping an eye out for anyone he knows. He does catch a glimpse of Lili's older brother through the trees and quickly turns down another path, having no desire to meet such a prickly personality on such a lovely day.

His quick avoidance takes him a bit farther out of his way than he'd meant to go, into a section of the park where the trees are a bit denser and the paths a little quieter. As he circles around a small pond to head back toward his apartment again, he catches a flash of sunlit gold out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head to look, and very nearly trips. Quickly he steps behind a convenient tree, peering around it and cursing the fact that he doesn't have his camera with him.

Arthur has spread out a tartan fleece blanket on the ground and is stretched out on his stomach. He's barefoot, with his boots placed neatly off to the side of the blanket, slouching in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt that's riding up to show a strip of pale lower back. He had apparently at one point been studying, since there are several textbooks stacked on the blanket around him, and even one open in front of him, but his head is pillowed on his arms and he's sound asleep in the peaceful sunlight.

But that isn't what has Francis staring at him in delight and awe (at least, not entirely). Hunched at the side of the blanket, nose twitching as it investigates Arthur's elbow, is a small brown rabbit. Not too far away, not quite as brave, is another, ears swiveling nervously.

As Francis watches, the closer rabbit hops cautiously onto the blanket, wanting to investigate this strange tartan and denim hill that has appeared in her territory. After a long, cautious pause during which Arthur fails to do anything, she moves again. This time, she hops onto his textbook to investigate his folded arms and face. (Francis will later insist she is checking to be sure his eyebrows are not predatory.)

Her whiskers tickle his cheeks and her nose brushing his forehead is cold. Arthur twitches, then jerks awake with a snort. Both rabbits startle and bolt, leaving Arthur blinking sleepily at Francis howling with laughter and a muddy paw print that will forever stain the pages of his favourite anatomy text.

~*~

Francis is in his apartment again, and Arthur isn't entirely sure how he got there.

He wakes up to the smell of frying eggs and the sound of someone humming. For one bleary moment, he thinks he's at home again, up until he pries his eyes open and finds himself staring up at the cracked, water-stained ceiling of his apartment.

He's reasonably certain that no one would break in to cook him breakfast and then mean him harm, so he's not terribly concerned as he hauls himself out of bed and to the bathroom to wash his face and drag a brush through his hair. It still sticks up, but at least it's fairly symmetrical now.

Then he pads out into the main room of the apartment, scowling at Francis standing by the stove with a spatula. "What the hell are you doing in here, frog?"

"Tea things are on the counter," Francis says, entirely too cheerful. "I know better than to attempt to make a cup for any Englishmen." There's a mug by his elbow, Arthur notes, so he probably helped himself to the coffee maker anyway.

Arthur grumbles but crosses to make his tea, peering sideways at Francis. "You didn't answer my question."

"Making poached eggs, if you must know," Francis says, still maddeningly cheerful. A spoon hits him in the back of the head, and he begins to laugh. "...Alfred called me early this morning. He said the hospital was swamped last night and you looked like you were run off your feet. I thought you might appreciate a hot, edible breakfast."

Arthur frowns and debates flinging another spoon. "Al was there last night?" He pauses, thinking about who he's talking about here. "Was he working, or did he break something playing rugby again?" Not that 'working' is the right term, exactly; Alfred volunteers at the hospital for class credit, same as Arthur.

Francis snickers, flipping the eggs out onto the waiting plates. "Working, as far as I know. If he was hurt, it would have been an exasperated call from Mathieu instead."

"True enough," Arthur agrees, pouring hot water into his cup with a slight, pleased sigh. "How is Matt? I run into Al often enough but we never have time to talk."

"Well enough," Francis sets a plate in front of him, and Arthur tries not to let on how much his mouth is watering. From Francis' smug little smile, he suspects the frog knows anyway. "Swamped with schoolwork, the same as the rest of us. Last I talked to him he was scrambling to finish a paper on theoretical particle streams."

"Ouch," Arthur intones, taking a sip of tea. "I have one coming up about an obscure protein reaction in the human digestive tract that causes excessive incontinence."

Francis leans over and flicks him on the nose. "No talking about bodily functions at the breakfast table."

"Bloody hell," Arthur snarls at him and reaches up to rub his abused nose. "What are you, my mother?"

"Non, simply a non-medical student," Francis smiles mildly. "I would like to keep my own breakfast _in_ my digestive tract."

"Pansy," Arthur rolls his eyes, but refrains from more detailed medical talk.

It doesn't occur to either of them how strange yet revealing this situation is, that Francis has broken into Arthur's apartment for the sake of the kitchen, and that they are sitting sharing breakfast like two very old friends, for all that they've only known each other a few months. Neither of them take note, and it's very likely that if they had, they would have denied until the end of time that there was anything other than a mild friendship there, no matter what evidence is presented to the contrary.

~*~

Alfred's text message comes in the middle of a droning lecture on organic chemistry, and Arthur is glad of the distraction. He's sitting in the back of the large lecture hall anyway, so it's an easy matter to slump down in his seat a little and pull his mobile out of his pocket.

 _Busy 2nite?_ it asks, and Arthur cocks one eyebrow before typing back.

 _Why?_

The reply comes nearly immediately, though Arthur's pretty sure that Alfred's supposed to be in class right now too. _Study party 2nite @ our place @ 7._

Arthur rolls his eyes. He knows Alfred a little too well. _Study party or booze party?_

There's a minute's pause before the answer comes. _Prolly both? & pizza._

Arthur snorts, causing a couple nearby students to turn and look at him, but he gives them a flat look and they all go back to minding their own business. _Who?_ If this is going to be another of Alfred's "Let's see how many people we can shove into a two bedroom apartment" parties again, he's definitely skipping. It's too close to finals to waste a night.

 _U me Matt Fran Kiku & mayb 1 of Matt's hockey friends._

 _Commas_ , Arthur texts back almost absently, wondering which of Matt's friends it might be. He knows a couple of them, vaguely, because Nik pitches in with the hockey team whenever he doesn't have a gig with the band. Arthur's been to a few of the games, and thinks he's never been so terrified in his life. Not of the teams, necessarily, of the _fans_. It's nearly as bad as football.

Alfred doesn't text back and for awhile Arthur assumes he's going to leave it there, up until he's walking out of class and his mobile buzzes again. _Sry,_ Alfred says, _The prof took my fone. Cming 2nite?_

Arthur rolls his eyes, but taps back a quick affirmative. It's just a small gathering, they may even actually get some work done. It can't hurt.

He shows up at Matthew and Alfred's apartment at 6:50 that night to find Alfred's Japanese friend, Kiku, already there and armed with several bags of strange Asian snack food. Arthur lets Matthew take the bottle of scotch he brought, and steps over to introduce himself, remembering to bow awkwardly rather than shake hands. Kiku seems to appreciate the effort, and smiles quietly. He and Alfred are on the floor beside the coffee table with books open in front of them, Alfred sprawled and Kiku kneeling neatly. Arthur drops his backpack beside them and goes to help Matthew in the kitchen area.

He's barely asked _what can be done?_ before Francis sweeps in without bothering to knock, arms full of red and gold bags from his favorite local bakery, a jar of clover honey and another of apple butter and two bottles of wine. He deposits the entire mess into Arthur's arms and nudges him sideways with elbow and hip, giving him a sly smile as Arthur flushes. "Be a dear and go put those out where people can get at them before you manage to ruin whatever Mathieu is cooking."

" _Oy_ ," Arthur snarls at him and considers kicking him, but then Alfred is leaning over his shoulder to fish through the bags he's holding, making appreciative sounds as he gets fingerprints all over the warm buttered croissants. "Get off, you git," Arthur directs his ire at Alfred instead, turning to set the bags and bottles down on the kitchen table and scowling over at Francis' back. The Frenchman seems cheerfully oblivious, already pulling out a cutting board to help Matthew prepare the pizzas.

(Francis refuses to order commercial pizza. He says the cheese is sub-par and there is far too much grease for his delicate stomach. Matthew doesn't care for it either, and Alfred doesn't have an opinion (Alfred could, in fact, probably smear ketchup on cardboard and call it a meal), so they always end up buying a frozen crust and making their own. They probably would make their own crust, too, if they'd had the time and there hadn't been that incident with Alfred trying to throw the crust like the chefs on TV always do.)

Arthur has just managed to chase Alfred away from the bakery bags when the doorbell rings, and since he's the one closest he moves to answer it. He finds himself looking at a young man about his own height, with blond hair that runs toward ashy rather than golden. He's carrying a backpack over one shoulder and a bag from the local deli, dressed in baggy jeans and a t-shirt with something written on it in a Nordic language. Arthur can't even tell which one, just that there's a lot of umlauts in it.

They blink at each other for a minute, until Matthew looks over and laughs, waving a hand holding half a stick of pepperoni at them. "Tino, come in! I promise Arthur doesn't bite!"

"Usually!" Francis chimes in cheerfully, "His eyebrows might!" and Arthur turns bright red and is forced to steal the pepperoni from Matthew so he can choke the Frenchman with it.

Twenty eventful minutes later they're all seated in various states of sprawl around the apartment. Arthur and Matthew and Tino bunched together on the couch, Kiku still kneeling on the floor and Alfred flopped beside him taking up three times more floor space, Francis leaning against the wall where he can move to the kitchen quickly to deal with the food.

"I've always loved animals," Tino says, idly flipping through one of Arthur's biology textbooks. "And some of the best vet schools are here in Britain, so I decided to come here for undergrad too."

"Do you live on campus?" Alfred asks, but his mouth is full of mochi so it comes out more like "Oo ouo 'ive oa anmus?" Matthew leans over and smacks him calmly over the back of his head. Alfred whines, and Arthur's the only one looking in the right direction to see Kiku politely muffle a smile behind his hand.

Tino just laughs and shakes his head. "No, Berwald bought a clock shop when we moved here, we have an apartment above it."

"A _clock_ shop?" Alfred asks, having swallowed, in the same way other people might say "A _slug_ farm?"

"Berwald?" Francis asks at the same time, eyebrows raising suggestively.

Tino blushes at being the center of attention, and Matthew rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer. "Berwald's his boyfriend. You've met him, Fran, he's been at our parties. Ten feet tall, built like an ox, gaze that can eat through brick..."

"Hey," Tino laughs a bit again, elbowing Matthew in the ribs. "He's not _that_ bad..."

"Okay, okay," Matthew smiles. "He's probably only eight feet tall."

"A clock shop," Alfred repeats, apparently bewildered.

Arthur rolls his eyes and considers following Matthew's lead in smacking him. "Yes, Alfred, clocks are those tickety things that hang on the wall and tell you what time it is when your mobile phone dies."

Alfred stares at him. "They still make those?"

A collective facepalm travels around the room, and Arthur chucks a couch pillow at him. Matthew has one too, on his end of the couch, but Alfred's saved from further pelting when the oven buzzer goes off and Francis goes to pull the pizzas out, effectively distracting everyone for ten minutes or so.

"I fear I shall never be used to Western food," Kiku eyes the pizza a bit dubiously despite the presence of seaweed and squid jerky in the bag of snacks he'd brought. "But this is quite good, Bonnefoy-san."

"Merci," Francis smiles, looking pleased and sipping his wine, completely ignoring the stack of papers he'd brought with him that need grading. Finished with cooking, he's slouched onto one end of the couch. Arthur's too lazy to move, curled on the other end of the couch wistfully thinking that he really _should_ be studying but without any real intent of doing so.

Matthew had sat on the floor to eat his pizza, and Tino slides down to join him, and the two of them discussing hockey and the merits of the Stanley Cup versus the European Trophy drones into the background. Alfred and Kiku have several books spread across the coffee table, psychology and social ethics butting up against what looks like advanced computer programming and... a book of fairy tales? At any rate, they seem to actually be getting some work done, likely through Kiku's amazing ability to only half pay attention to Alfred's rambling chatter in his ear, occasionally nodding or making soft 'ah' noises.

Arthur is just starting to convince himself that he really should be reaching for his anatomy notes instead of the bottle of scotch when Francis shifts beside him and leans against his shoulder.

Arthur freezes, turning slowly to peer down at the Frenchman and wondering if he's completely lost his mind. He can feel his cheeks starting to flush as Francis' warm weight settles against his side, and he fails to notice Matthew nudging Tino and even Alfred falling quiet, eyes wide and owlish behind his glasses. "Look, frog, I'm not your bloody-"

His voice dies in his throat as Francis shifts to look up at him, cheeks pink and eyes hazy with wine (so blue, like the summer sky in Greece when Arthur was eight and he got lost in the ruins of the Temple of Athena on a family vacation). For a minute they just stare at each other from about two inches apart, Francis' hand on Arthur's thigh and leaning close against his shoulder, both of them a little more than tipsy but not quite to drunk.

Later, Alfred will insist it was Francis who made the first move, but Matthew is sure it was Arthur and Kiku will quietly agree. Tino isn't sure which moved first, and eventually the others agree that it doesn't really matter. What matters is that it _happened_ , that Arthur and Francis kissed, right there on the couch in Matthew and Alfred's apartment ("Gross, Matt, we seriously need to Febreeze that thing now!").

The other four hold their breath, afraid of breaking this moment, whatever it is. Kiku seems to be reaching very slowly for his incredibly advanced Japanese camera phone, but that's the only move any of them makes. Matthew thinks distantly that he should probably try and smother Alfred _now_ , before he says something that'll get someone killed, but before he has the chance, the couch explodes.

Francis' hand shifts rather purposefully on Arthur's thigh, and he tilts his head to try and deepen the kiss. Predictably, Arthur squawks indignantly, and Francis takes advantage of the parting of his lips to try and shove his tongue down Arthur's throat.

It ends about as expected, with Francis shoved off the couch to land on Tino, a broken wine glass and Matthew following Arthur home with his books, shoes, and other things he forgets when he storms out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Obligatory name explanations:**  
>  _Madeline Williams Jones_ \- Matthew's mother, Francis' aunt. French by birth, and named of course for the series of French children's books about twelve little girls in two neat rows.  
>  _Marianne Bonnefoy_ \- She didn't appear in this chapter, but Francis' mother, Madeline's older sister. Named for the real life symbol of France, Lady Marianne.  
>  _Stephen Jones_ \- Alfred's father. Named for a certain American pundit that I'm a huge fan of.  
>  _Kirkland clan  
>  Morgan_ \- their mother, named for Morgan Le Fay  
>  _John_ \- their father, named for (again) the real life personification of Britain in general, John Bull  
>  _Erin_ \- oldest child and only girl, Ireland  
>  _Ian_ \- oldest son, Scotland  
>  _Rhys_ \- Wales  
>  _Liam_ \- North Ireland  
>  (And here's a hint. Peter's not their only cousin.)
> 
> Because I know people are probably wondering, Alfred is majoring in social work, and Kiku is double majoring in robotics and folklore. No, I'm not even kidding. Silly Kiku.
> 
> Also, there were a few more cameos this chapter, good luck spotting them.


	3. Part III

An ambushed kiss.  
A resounding slap.  
Fervent swearing in two languages.  
~An Almost-Haiku of Tsundere Proportions (by Matt Williams, who was there to witness it and is just very glad neither of them realized it.)

~*~

Arthur manages to avoid Francis for nearly a week, mostly through going out of his way to change his usual routes and always leaving the apartment via the fire escape. He becomes something of a legend among his neighbors for his harrowing five-story climb each day.

Six days after the (disastrous) party at Matthew and Alfred's, Arthur's having to concentrate harder than usual. It rained last night, pounding against the roof over Arthur's head and keeping him awake. He had to get up every two hours to change the bucket under the leak in the living room that the landlord promised would be fixed last week. So he isn't in the best of moods (or terribly awake) anyway.

The leftover water is soaking into his sleeves, making the metal bars slippery and treacherous. Arthur's having vivid mental images of slipping several stories to his death, or at least to his embarrassment. In consequence, the climb is taking him much longer than it normally otherwise would.

He's just passing the second floor and starting to think about glancing downward to check he has a clear place to land when someone clears their throat, loudly and directly below him. Arthur makes a noise that is rather reminiscent of a screechy cat (which he will deny for the rest of his _life_ ) and jerks in surprise. His converse slips off the wet rung of the ladder, and Arthur has approximately two seconds before all his weight hits his left hand, three rungs up and also very wet.

What he says is " _Oh f-_ " and then he's falling.

He doesn't even really have time to properly panic, but his heart is trying to pound out of his ribs and there may be a very girlish shriek as he falls straight down and lands in the arms of whoever is standing below him.

Or, he would have landed in their arms, except that Arthur flails like a bathed house cat and his elbow manages to smack his would-be saviour on the top of the head, and they both go tumbling to the wet pavement. But at least Arthur is on top. He strongly suspects who it is he's sitting on, even before he hears the hoarse French swearing and feels familiar hands shoving at his shoulder.

"Get _off_ of me, sourcils! My _spleen_!"

"Frogs can live without spleens, I'm sure," Arthur retorts, heart still racing from his near tangle with death as he stares up at the fire escape he'd been gripping mere moments before. It drips on him, petulantly.

Francis shoves again, and this time Arthur rolls off him, pushing himself to his feet and brushing himself off, inspecting his clothes for any rips they may have incurred. Satisfied, he offers Francis his hand.

Francis stares at him, one eyebrow tilting in a way that clearly yet politely inquires if perhaps Arthur has lost his mind. Arthur snarls, "Bonnefoy-" and then Francis grabs his hand to pull himself to his feet. (Arthur starts a little, surprised. Somehow, he'd never thought about painters having callused fingers, in different places but not so different in substance from Arthur's own guitar-born ones.)

Their eyes meet, hands still lingering between them, fingers not quite curled around each other but at least still touching, palms warm and damp. Arthur swallows, not sure what he's supposed to say, and settling for an awkward and grumpy "Thanks" as he quickly and abruptly averts his eyes. He pulls his hand away.

And Francis, struck by a sudden desire to see those green eyes again, to watch Arthur blush all over again and perhaps this time not get shoved for his efforts, moves entirely without thinking to pin Arthur back against the wall.

Arthur, predictably (like clockwork, very _British_ clockwork), flails in surprise, his eyes snapping back to Francis'. "What the bloody hell are you-"

Francis grabs his chin in a grip perhaps a bit too tight, and kisses him again.

Francis tastes of smoke and ash, and Arthur wonders if the dizziness he's feeling is the adrenaline from the fall, breathlessness from the kiss, or novelty from the vague notion that kissing Francis is like kissing half the city, or at the very least half the university.

Not that Arthur hasn't done his fair share of kissing, of course. He's kissed Eliza, and her then-boyfriend, now-fiance (she seems to really like that sort of thing, and Roderich had been his roommate at the time). He's kissed Gilbert _once_ and regretted it ever since. Then there was the time he'd woken up after a fairly incredible party last year (thinking back now, he's pretty sure it involved a lot of absinthe) half-naked on Matthew and Alfred's floor with a hangover trying its damnedest to eat his skull and Matthew cheerfully informing him that he has pictures of Arthur and Alfred necking like horny high schoolers (Arthur's never seen the mythical pictures, and has never managed to get a straight answer out of Matthew whether or not said pictures _actually_ exist, but the threat is there).

There is something vaguely _wrong_ in thinking about Alfred while kissing Francis, so Arthur firmly turns his mind away from past ~~conquests~~ experiences. Instead, his senses see fit to remind him that he's being pinned against a brick wall, which is above all dirty and quite damp besides. He wriggles a little, feeling the sharp edges of bricks digging into his shoulder blades and the grimy water soaking into his shirt.

Really, it's not a very good kiss. Arthur's lips are chapped and rough against Francis' smooth ones. Arthur is squirming, half-distracted by the damp fabric beginning to cling to his back and the jagged bits of wall digging through it. Francis is perhaps a tad over zealous, pressing close and just making Arthur squirm more.

His teeth clack jarringly against Arthur's when he tries to deepen the kiss, and it jolts them both out of the kiss entirely, though Francis stays pressed close enough that Arthur can feel his heat all down the lines of their bodies. Most of it seems to be settling in Arthur's face and, to his horror, low in his gut.

"It figures, frog, that you'd be a depraved homosexual." Arthur scowls to try and cover his raging blush, despite the fact that he is pinned with his back to a wet brick alley wall and isn't struggling perhaps as hard as he should be.

"Snogging does not make one a depraved anything," Francis sniffs, slightly out of breath from trying to snog a (mostly) unwilling partner. "It makes one a student of _l'amour_. And I think that the many girlfriends I have had over the years would dispute the 'homo' part as well."

"Girlfriends, ha," Arthur snorts. "Don't you mean 'tarts I managed to bribe into bed for a night'?"

Francis' eyes darken, and for a fleeting moment Arthur wonders if he took that a step too far. But that thought gets rattled out of his head, along with quite possibly his brains and teeth, when Francis grabs him by the collar of his shirt and slams him back against the wall. "Take that back," he snarls, and Arthur manages to give him a cold, aloof look (or what he imagines is a cold, aloof look; he's still a bit shaken).

"What's the matter, Bonnefoy, afraid of the truth?"

Francis hisses, low and between his teeth, and for a moment Arthur thinks he really is going to hit him, and balls his hands into fists to prepare for a retaliatory strike (no Kirkland has ever lost a fight, let alone to a _Frenchman_. His brothers would _never_ let him hear the end of it). But then, inexplicably, Francis sags into him a bit, puts his head on Arthur's shoulder, and begins to laugh.

Arthur stiffens, wary, and twists his head to peer down at the French _thing_ suddenly leaning against him, still pinning him to the wall. "What are you _on_ , frog?"

"Nicotine and paint fumes," Francis answers promptly, then waves a hand lazily (his graceful fingers almost leave _trails_ through the humid air, or maybe it's just that Arthur's noticing them for the first time). "That does not matter. _Look_ at us, sourcils. Two perfectly respectable grown men," ("Speak for yourself," Arthur mutters) "And we are fighting like two school boys."

"I called you a poofter the first day we met," Arthur reminds him, and then immediately blushes when Francis gives him a thoughtful look.

"You remember the oddest things, lapin. I'm not sure if I should be flattered or exasperated."

"Bastard," Arthur hisses with feeling, shoving at his shoulders to no avail. "How the bloody hell did you know I'd be climbing down here, anyway?"

"Ah," Francis brightens, and still steadfastly refuses to remove himself from Arthur's personal space. "That is a remarkable story, actually. You see, I became a bit worried when I didn't run into you in the lift on Thursday, since your class ends just as one of mine is beginning and usually we at least pass each other," ("Stalker," Arthur hisses, but Francis ignores him and carries on.) "I was worried you might be sick, and so I went up to ask the nice elderly lady who lives two doors down from you-" ("Who just _happens_ to live with her extremely attractive granddaughter," Arthur interjects with a roll of his eyes, and is again ignored.) "-And she told me the most _interesting_ story, sourcils. She said you'd been climbing the _fire escape_ every time you came and went. I was astonished, really, but I suppose one must get their exercise however they can, so I thought nothing of it. This morning, though, I knew it had rained all night, and I was worried you might hurt yourself trying to climb down. And I was very nearly right, wasn't I?"

Arthur's gaze is fixated at some point off in the distance over Francis' right shoulder. He's decided that maybe if he looks bored enough, Francis will give up and go away. Unfortunately, he has no such luck, as even after he stops talking, Francis still stares at him with a bemused look until Arthur reluctantly refocuses on him.

"So you're a snoop," Arthur snorts, and crosses his arms just to force a little distance between their chests. "Good on you."

Francis smiles, then. A soft, teasing curve of lips paired with an odd ~~tender~~ light in his eyes that makes the bottom abruptly drop out of Arthur's stomach for reasons he'd rather not think about. One of those damned graceful painter's hands comes up, fingertips brushing the line of Arthur's jaw, and when Francis leans in Arthur can feel the warmth of his breath against his ear. His spine seems to have fused into one solid vertical pole, his blood turning first to ice, then something like microwaved jelly as Francis coos softly,

"Besides, mon lapin, I think you've forgotten. The fire escape runs directly past _my_ window too."

~*~

The next morning, Francis gets up at his usual time, showers, gets dressed and fixes his first cup of coffee. He fetches an ice pack for his black eye and sits down on the couch to wait, as he has for the last week.

But no furtive Englishman graces his fire escape.

~*~

When Francis opens the door sometime in the middle of April, it's to a very angry Arthur Kirkland, his eyebrows drawn down into a fuzzy thundercloud. He doesn't bother to say hello and storms into Francis' apartment without waiting to be asked, scowling around into corners as though he's looking for something particularly distasteful. This is confirmed when he rounds on the bewildered Francis and barks, "Where's Beilschmidt?!"

Francis blinks at him for a moment, then raises an eyebrow and closes the door, unruffled in the face of Arthur's scowls. He wipes his knuckles off on his jeans, smearing green and gold paint in short strokes. "I haven't heard from him in weeks, lapin," he says honestly, and it's a mark of Arthur's anger ~~and worry~~ that he doesn't react to the nickname. "Has something happened?"

Arthur glances around the apartment again, restless, then shoves a battered postcard into Francis' hands. Francis takes it gingerly but it's hard to avoid leaving fingerprints along the edges; Arthur did interrupt him in the middle of work. It doesn't matter terribly much though, the postcard is already smeared and water stained, and there's what looks like a splash of red wine staining the lower edge. The picture on the front is a cliche portrait of a Spanish bullfighter in full sequined regalia, and says ' _Hola from Madrid!_ '. It's addressed to Gilbert's brother Ludwig, and Francis isn't sure he wants to know how Arthur got ahold of it.

The handwriting is definitely Gilbert's, but all it says in smeared black pen is _'Hola West! I've decided I'm going to stay in Spain. Antonio's parents' fucking tractor keeps breaking down, and of course I'm the most awesome mechanic there is, so they need me. Keep out of trouble and if you decide to man up and kiss Feli, make sure someone gets pictures. Later!'_ There's no return address beyond the postcard's vague clue that he might be in the area of Madrid.

Francis stares at it for a long moment, then looks up and realizes Arthur is just as confused as he is. They look at each other for a minute, until Francis finally ventures, "Spain?"

Arthur shrugs, running a hand over his eyebrows and through his hair in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't know. He travels a lot, but usually not for more than a week or two. Have you ever heard him mention someone named 'Antonio'?"

Francis shakes his head, handing the postcard back, his fingers brushing Arthur's and leaving a faint streak of yellow-green that neither really notices. "You probably talk to him more often than I do, these days. Has he ever mentioned this Antonio to you?"

"No, never," Arthur growls, and kicks Francis' couch (Francis isn't terribly put out, he's pretty sure than poor couch is beyond feeling any pain). "Fuck, of all times for him to decide to run off! He knows we have a gig this weekend! And _next_ weekend! Bloody fucking hell!"

Francis sighs, and remembers just in time to not run paint-spotted fingers through his hair. He lets Arthur rant and curse for a few minutes, casually moving anything particularly breakable out of the way. When the Englishman seems to be winding down, Francis speaks up. "Do you know anyone who plays bass well enough to replace him, at least temporarily?"

Arthur pauses to stare at him, then slowly begins to smile. "No, but that gives me a better idea."

So Francis, after digging in his heels enough to wash his hands and brushes, finds himself dragged down to the bus stop. "Arthur," he tries. "Where are we going?"

Arthur looks remarkably cheerful. It's a bit frightening. "To see some friends of mine," he checks his watch. "Hopefully he's there."

"Why do I have to come?"

Arthur ignores him, and the bus arrives just then, so he drags Francis on board. Francis huffs, but doesn't really protest, curious despite himself.

The ride isn't terribly long, just ten, fifteen minutes from their apartment building across from campus. They don't really talk much, but the silence is companionable rather than strained. Arthur puts his headphones on, and Francis props his chin on his hand and stares out the window.

When they get off the bus, Arthur drags him again for a few blocks through residentials and brownstones, until they give way to rows of quaint little white-washed shops and they reach a tidy cafe. Francis glances up at the sign swinging above the door - _The Whistling Winds Cafe_ \- and looks around curiously as Arthur herds him inside.

The furniture is all iron and wicker, the decor warm and welcoming, the smells delicious. Francis is delighted to see Elizaveta behind the counter, hair tied back into a ponytail and bandanna, with an apron on over her jeans and blouse. The apron, Francis notes with amusement, says ' _Kiss the cook (and die)_ ' on it, with an embroidered fry pan, of all things. She looks up when the bell over the door jingles, and her face breaks into a grin. "Well, look what the cat dragged in!"

"Hullo, Eliza," Arthur smiles, hands in his pockets as he wanders over, Francis trailing behind.

"Hullo, Arthur," she smiles, wiping her hands off on her apron and nodding politely to Francis. "I wasn't expecting to see you until practice tomorrow."

"Well," Arthur pauses, then offers her the postcard. "We have a bit of a problem. I was wondering if Roderich was in."

Eliza scans the postcard, eyebrows going up. "Oh _Gil_ ," she sighs, shaking her head. Then she looks at Arthur, face shifting into a thoughtful expression. "...Roderich, you say?"

"Roderich?" Francis asks, tired of being left out of the loop.

"Eliza's fiance," Arthur smirks slightly. "He's a classical pianist and orchestral conductor."

Francis blinks, not sure he understands, and slightly disturbed by the twin looks of evil glee on Arthur and Eliza's faces. "How does this help ßrïtøn?"

"He also plays fiddle,"

"Violin," comes a slightly annoyed voice from behind them. They turn to see a young man about Arthur's age with dark, combed back hair and trim, square-framed glasses over cool lavender eyes. He eyes them, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And fiddle," Eliza says cheerfully, apparently unconcerned by Roderich glaring. "Here, look at this," she hands him the postcard from Gilbert, and Roderich's brow furrows as he reads it.

"Spain?" he sounds just as incredulous and confused as Arthur had. "That idiot's finally lost his mind."

"Oh, I don't think so," Eliza's smile makes Francis think she knows a little more than she's letting on. "But that still means we're down a bassist."

"I don't play bass," Roderich says stiffly, eying his fiancee.

"But you play fiddle," she repeats sweetly, and Roderich bristles.

" _Violin_ ," he says again, firmly.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Oh come off it, Roddy, we all know they're exactly the same thing except for the manner in which it's played."

"And how tight the pants you're wearing are," Eliza adds, eyes twinkling. "We share a room, dearest, I _know_ you have leather hidden way in the back of your closet."

Roderich squawks and turns an interesting shade of red, but he's lost and he knows it. He grabs Eliza by the arm and drags her into the back of the cafe to continue the argument in a more private setting, and Arthur snickers, seeming unconcerned. He snags Francis' sleeve, tugging him over to sit down at one of the tables.

"They'll get it fought out soon enough," Arthur says, still smirking and looking rather smug. "Roderich isn't as prim and proper as he'd have everyone believe." Francis rolls his eyes, and neither notices as Eliza peers out of the back again and clicks off a couple pictures of them together, Roderich still huffing in the background.

Five minutes later, Francis blinks and looks up from his coffee when someone's phone begins ringing. "Is that Yellow Submarine?"

Arthur turns pink and scowls. "Don't judge me, frog." He digs around in his bag for his mobile, ignoring Francis' amused stare. He glances at the caller ID, then blinks and flips it open. "'Lo, you have good timing. Are you free this afternoon?" A pause, and Francis can just hear whoever's on the other end chattering. "We're at the cafe," Arthur breaks in after a moment. "We need to have an emergency practice." Another pause, what sounds like an enthusiastic affirmative. "...And stop by my apartment to get my guitar, if you please. If you touch anything else while you're there, I will know, and I will _end you_."

"I'm impressed," Eliza leers a bit, wandering back over as Arthur hangs up. "Letting Nik touch Victoria? Or at least, I assume that was Nik."

"It was," Arthur grumbles.

Francis blinks at him, more amused than ever. "For one, Arthur, Nik has a key to your apartment? And for another, you've _named_ your guitar? How adorable!"

"Shut up!" Arthur scowls and turns pink, and turns pinker when several people turn to stare at them, dropping his voice to a hiss. "Have you ever _seen_ Nik's keyring? I swear he has a key to every building in the city."

"He's got one to the cafe," Eliza nods. "Though I gave him that one, since we practice here."

"He steals most of the others," Arthur growls. "I'm _sure_ he does."

"To be fair," Francis says mildly. "I manage to get into your apartment _without_ a key."

Eliza bursts into delighted giggles and has to hold Arthur back from killing him. Roderich wisely stays in the back room, out of the line of fire, and Arthur and Francis are still squabbling when Nik arrives, out of breath and carrying Arthur's guitar case.

(A hard case to protect his beloved Victoria from dents, and black, but nearly invisible beneath the layer of stickers from around the world. Francis tilts his head to peer at a few; a bumper sticker that says "Keep Calm and Drink Tea", one from the Mythbusters, both a TARDIS and a Dalek, and layers upon layers of flags. Flags, Francis guesses, from every country that Arthur has visited.)

Nik's arrival at least serves to distract Arthur from trying to strangle Francis. A graceful pounce from Eliza keeps him from trying to kill Nik instead.

Nik just grins, apparently unconcerned, holding the guitar case in front of him like a shield until Arthur snatches it away. "Hey guys, what's up?"

Arthur subsides into his seat, grumbling and checking his guitar over for injury. Eliza looks amused, but manages not to smile too much. "Gil's run off to Spain again, but this time it looks like he might not be coming back, at least not for awhile. So we're down a bassist for the gig this weekend."

"Oh," Nik's grin fades. "Well damn. You don't play, do you?" he looks over at Francis.

Francis shakes his head, once again wondering just how he'd gotten mixed up with this lot. "Non, sorry, I was simply dragged along."

Nik frowns. "Shit. What're we gonna do, guys?"

Eliza's grin is rather evil, at least in Francis' mind. "Oh, we've got a plan. You guys go on and set up, I'll be along in a few minutes." She turns to flounce off into the back room.

The look on Nik's face is priceless. "She's going to put Roddy in leather pants again, isn't she?"

"Most likely," Arthur says solemnly, standing to clap a hand on Nik's shoulder. "Come on."

They head for a door marked _Employees Only_ and down a short hallway to what looks like it might have originally been a garage. The walls and floor have been covered in thick carpeting to provide a little sound dampening, and Nik's drum set is set up to one side. The cases for the drums and the packed up speakers and amps are piled to the other, waiting for a gig to give Arthur and Gilbert (except now, not) reason to haul them out to Eliza's ancient van.

Arthur pauses an frowns when he realizes that Francis has trailed along. "Do you have to come, frog?"

Francis just raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "You're the one who dragged me out of my apartment, lapin."

Arthur screeches, turning bright red. Nik blinks, raising his voice over the Brit's sputtering. "Lapin? Is that French?"

Francis nods, smirking, but doesn't offer the translation. (He wouldn't anyway, because that memory of Arthur from a month ago, tartan blanket and bare feet and a rabbit sitting on his textbook, is curled up down inside his heart, for Francis and Francis alone.) He is too busy fending off Arthur trying to bludgeon him with his guitar case. Nik starts to laugh at them, and the noise level rises steadily until Eliza strides in and puts her hands on her hips.

"Boys!"

Arthur and Francis freeze where they stand. Nik had rescued the guitar at some point, and Arthur has a hand tangled in Francis' hair while Francis does his best to strangle him.

Nik tries hard to stifle his snickering, and manages more success when Eliza turns a stern look on him.

"As much as I like watching the two of you fight like cats in heat-" Indignant yowls from both of them, and they quickly jump away from each other as though they've been burned. "-Would you please grow up so we can practice and not totally bomb this weekend's gig?"

"Yes Eliza," Arthur mutters, sounding sulky, as though Eliza is his _mother_. Francis throws him an amused look, until Eliza turns that questioning gaze on him.

"Er," Francis clears his throat, glancing around. "I'll just leave you all to practice, shall I?"

Eliza smiles sweetly at him, not precisely because she _wants_ him gone, but mostly because she knows there will be no concentrating if Francis is here to irritate Arthur. Nik does that well enough all on his own, never mind when Gilbert is here. "Sorry Fran. Are you coming to the gig?"

"Of course," Francis probably doesn't realize how brightly he smiles at that, but Eliza doesn't miss it. She doesn't miss Arthur's furious blush, either, and quickly hides a smile.

"We'll see you then."

Roderich comes in five minutes later, nearly as red as Arthur and sputtering about Frenchmen with wandering hands. Eliza only regrets that she wasn't able to get pictures, and laments for a minute before turning her attention to practice and deftly breaking up a building argument between Arthur and Nik.

Honestly, some days she feels like she's their mother.

~*~

The rain has finally let up for a few days, much to Arthur's relief. He's lived in England his entire life, but even he is beginning to tire of dashing between classes with his bag under his jacket and his jeans perpetually damp.

He's on his way home from practice, and it's that funny time of twilight when the sun has not quite set, too busy painting the sky gold and purple, but the street lights are already coming on. (And if he's thinking in _painting metaphors_ , then he really has been hanging around that frog too much, lately.)

But, speaking of Francis.

Arthur pauses in the mouth of the alley between their apartment building and the next, absently squeezing the handle of Victoria's case a little tighter and blushing in memory of his ungraceful fall and the even more ungraceful kiss that followed.

He's just about to move on and go inside when someone ~~with a damnedly familiar French accent~~ speaks up from somewhere above him.

"Hark, what light from yonder window breaks?"

Arthur scowls, and would have crossed his arms if he wasn't holding his guitar. He looks up to see Francis perched on his second floor fire escape, the glow of a cigarette in one hand and smoke curling around his head as he leans against the railing, peering down at Arthur in amusement.

"That's Romeo's line," Arthur points out, and even from the ground in semi-darkness he can see Francis roll his eyes. There's a light on inside Francis' apartment, but it only casts a slight glow out into the alley. Arthur mentally fills in that it's probably the bathroom light that's on, since the window into Francis' bedroom is dark. Immediately, he mentally berates himself for knowing which is Francis' bedroom (never mind that his apartment three floors up is laid out exactly the same).

"What shall I say then?" Francis muses, tapping cigarette ash off the edge of the 'balcony'. Arthur makes a mental note not to go any closer; he doesn't fancy ash and embers in his _hair_. "Ah, _me_?"

"You're no angel," Arthur snorts again, eying him.

(He cuts a dashing figure, standing in the mouth of the alley with the sun setting behind him and casting his long shadow ahead, one hand in his pocket and the other gripping his guitar case as though preparing to swing it at a vicious monster that's going to be leaping out of the dark depths of the alley at any moment. Francis muses quietly to himself that Arthur really has no idea how ridiculously handsome and adorable he can be _at the same time_ and makes a mental note to tell him so at a later time when maximum flail can be achieved.)

"Well then," Francis pauses to take a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke that gleams golden in the last rays of the sun. "What was the other one? _When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dyin' day_?"

His singing voice actually isn't that bad, but Arthur twitches and wishes he had something to throw. " **Go to hell** , that play never should have been written!"

Arthur's shout echoes down the alley, and whatever Francis' reply might have been is cut off as a window one story up and one window over from where Francis is leaning slams open.

"Would you two _shut the fuck up_?" A man not much older than them leans out and scowls, most of his ire directed at Francis just below him. "Ugh, that's _disgusting_."

"It's a cigarette," Francis remarks calmly, and smiles as he blows smoke in the other man's general direction, making him screech.

"Whatever! Just shut up already, some of us have work tomorrow! If you're going to fucking seduce each other, get a room already!"

Francis freezes, his already prepared cool reply freezing solid in his throat. "I..."

But the scowling Italian has already retreated and slammed the window shut. Francis takes another (shaky) drag on his cigarette to steady himself, then turns.

Arthur's already gone too.

~*~

Arthur swears, heartily and with feeling. He crumples the paper he'd been writing on, scrunching the straight lines of the staff paper into jagged squiggles before throwing it across the room with as much force as he can manage. It bounces off the wall and rolls to an unsteady stop, joining its brethren in a pile of crumpled chords and ruptured melodies.

He crosses his arms, and if anyone else (say, Alfred, or Gilbert) had been there to observe, they would say that Arthur is pouting. But no one else is in the apartment presently, so Arthur is free to pout without anyone accusing him of doing so.

His supply of staff paper is rapidly being scrunched and scribbled through because Arthur cannot seem to write anything even halfway decent lately. He's been in composing slumps before, but that makes this one no less ~~annoying~~ ~~frustrating~~ infuriating. He ruffles both hands through his hair, biting back another fierce swear.

He _hates_ writer's block. It always makes him feel like such a freaking failure. He can't even manage to get a single note right, never mind making it through an entire song. Listening to music doesn't help either, all it does is remind him that he'll never, _ever_ be the Beatles, or even the Eagles. Never mind Queen. They're all amazing, perfect, and everything Arthur will never be.

Stamping his foot on the floor in frustration, Arthur rolls off the couch. He kicks at a wad of staff paper that hadn't managed to bounce quite far enough to escape his wrath, then grabs his scarf and jacket off the hook by the door. A walk and a pastry at that bakery Francis got him hooked on should manage to distract him, if not fix the block. It's raining, but it's still better than sitting around wasting staff paper, anyway.

He wrenches open the door and takes the stairs, too frustrated to bother with waiting for the lift. He steps out of the stairwell into the building lobby and stops dead, staring.

Francis is leaning against the wall near the front doors, wearing fashionable slacks and a shirt with absolutely no paint anywhere on it. His hair is pulled back into a messy tail at the back of his neck, and he's wearing his long black duster. Arthur knows that means one of two things. Either he's going to an art showing, or he has a date.

As Arthur watches, Francis checks his watch, glancing out the window. A date, then.

Something in Arthur's gut twitches at the thought. Francis looks like sin, leaning there casually in straight cut slacks with his hair out of his face. Like a snapshot, a painting that would have a title like _The Artist at Rest_ or _Casuality_. Almost perfect, but in a human-flawed way, in that there's paint under his fingernails and bags under his eyes. He makes such a nice picture, leaning there waiting for someone with the rain pounding away at the sidewalk outside.

Without conscious thought, Arthur spins on one heel and barges his way back into the stairwell. The last thing he wants is to see who Francis is waiting on with that little half-smile on his face.

Upstairs, Arthur burns through a quarter of the staff paper he has left in just under an hour. None of it ends up crumpled.

(Downstairs, Lili arrives four minutes late, apologizing breathlessly and babbling about wet stockings and her brother giving a lecture when a friend-who-happens-to-be-male shared her umbrella walking home from school. Francis waves her apologies away, compliments her dress and offers his arm to escort her out to the car he's borrowed from a friend to take them to the gallery opening. Lili doesn't stop smiling for hours and Francis deems the night a success.)

~*~

There is paint on Victoria's case.

Arthur sits and stares at it, one latch undone and the other still closed, halfway through the familiar motion of flinging the case open to grab for his ~~mistress~~ guitar. It's second nature, he's done it nearly every day for years; grab the handle and swing the case up onto the coffee table, flip the catches with a flick of his wrist and throw the lid back. He's long since stopped paying attention to even what the case looks like, not since he added the last sticker the day he graduated high school (a green and gold prismatic dragon that had been a snickering gift from Rhys) and firmly told himself he wasn't a child anymore.

Now he feels like he's poised on a precipice, staring at the smear of gold and peach. He reaches out to touch it, hesitantly, like he thinks it'll smear, but of course that's silly because the paint is long dry. His fingers only meet with the slight rough ridges of the dried swirls against the smoothness of the laminated stickers.

His mind supplies the details easily, though it could have happened a thousand different ways. Francis fending off an attack from an enraged Arthur, Francis stealing Victoria's case to skip ahead with it and force Arthur to chase him, Francis pressing close against his side and trying to steal his umbrella on the day he'd forgotten his own, Francis deftly slipping the case's handle out of Arthur's fingers, but not to run with her.

_"Here, you look like you're going to drop something. Don't you have a backpack you silly thing? Let me carry her."_

Arthur leans forward, until his nose is only an inch from the offending colour, but it's only a smear, Francis' fingerprints are lost somewhere within. Arthur wonders if it was accident or design that left the slur of paint across the sticker of the French flag. (He'd bought it, reluctantly, at a tiny shop on their way out of Paris at his mother's insistence. Because the guitar case would look incomplete without it, she'd said.)

He rubs his fingers harder over the paint, shifts to scratch at it with his thumb nail to see if he can get it off, but something makes him pause. He lifts his head, looking around his tiny apartment and wondering when it got so crowded.

His kitchen is far more stocked than it used to be, not only with food but with proper pans and strange little implements (whisks, spatulas, things he has no name for that only work when Francis picks them up) that he never would have thought to buy for himself. There's an _apron_ , plain blue but undeniably _Francis'_ because there's paint on it too. It's been hanging on a nail in the kitchen for weeks and somehow Arthur's never protested to its presence, not when it promises that sometime in the next week or so Francis will come to cook for him, for them.

Three weeks ago, Arthur gave up and cleared off one of his bookshelves, then went around his apartment and collected all the books and little things that Francis has been leaving and stacking them there. There's _art books_ , styles and things that Arthur certainly has no names for, and books in _French_.

And there's still a second toothbrush sitting on the bathroom sink, as though it's waiting.

Arthur sits for a long time, staring unseeing at a swirl of gold paint on a part of his soul, with one latch open and the other one closed.

~*~

Francis swears softly, under his breath. He eyes the canvas in front of him, and then the palette in his hand, as though trying to figure out which of them is responsible for his current predicament. He shifts, dropping the palette onto a shelf beside him and ignoring the paint that splatters across the hip of his jeans in revenge.

He stands to pace around the apartment, restless as a tiger in a cage, trying to work out the kinks in his back and shoulders, stabbing pain and tingling numbness that comes from hunching in front of an easel for far too long.

He throws another reproachful look toward the canvas under the windows. It's supposed to be his master's work, his best piece to date, and it _isn't_.

And he doesn't know why.

For years and years, since first hearing her story in a 6th year history class, he's been obsessed with Jeanne d'Arc. The maiden who saved his homeland. He spent his teen years half in love with her. She was why he began to paint, because he wants to capture her essence; her heroism and courage and faith, and pin it on a canvas so everyone can see it. He's always had a clear picture of her in his mind. He's never had trouble painting her before.

But now, just when he needs her most, it seems he's lost her.

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, leaving a skunk stripe of paint and barely noticing. The painting is due to be turned in to the review board in less than a month, and he still has to write up his methodology and reasoning paper. If he ever manages to finish the damn painting itself.

Very briefly, he entertains the thought of a change in career, then shakes his head sharply. He just needs a break. He's stressing himself out too much. He crosses the room to his stereo, idly flipping through his CD racks looking for something calming.

He stops, frowning down at the case in his hands. He doesn't have many burned CDs, usually just mixes that Matt or Sadiq give him. The handwriting on this one is neither of theirs, though it is faintly familiar. It just says 'For Francis' on it.

Curious, he pops the case open and slides it into his stereo.

He realizes about three measures into the first song that the handwriting on the CD must be Arthur's, and the CD is ßrïtøn's music.

Francis closes his eyes, letting the sound of Eliza's keyboard and Arthur's voice wash over him. Unbidden, a memory slides up over his mind's eye. Arthur, leaning into the microphone like a lover, fingers caressing the strings of his guitar, coaxing out music with a passion that Francis envies. Arthur looks so very _alive_ when he plays, not surly or annoyed; free.

Francis sucks in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes further closed, listening to Arthur sing and watching him play. There's an epiphany there, he thinks. Passion and life, all in Arthur's eyes.

Reaching over, Francis cranks up the stereo (he's earned the chance to be loud, dammit, putting up with that bitch next door as long as he has). He spins, feeling something of that same passion welling up inside him. He'll regret this later, he knows. He can feel the beginnings of a knot under his left shoulder blade that'll only get worse the longer he paints. But he doesn't care.

He can see Jeanne again, clear as day, and she has Arthur's eyes.

~*~

The invitation comes in a pink envelope, slid under his door sometime in the early morning. He considers just throwing it away, but he recognizes the handwriting and grudgingly decides Francis at least deserves to have his note opened.

It invites him in embossed letters on heavy cream paper with his name inked into a blank to come see an exhibition of the senior and masters' pieces from this year's art department. It's all very stiff and formal, all the way down to the bottom where Francis' looping hand adds an extra line.

 _At all costs,_ it says, _Avoid the young lady with ash blond hair who paints in blood._

Arthur hopes he's being metaphorical, but somehow thinks he isn't.

He knows already he's supposed to have practice that night, but he's distracted enough he doesn't notice the knowing tone in Eliza's voice when he calls to ask her to reschedule. He's been doing that a lot lately, not that she terribly minds. On the contrary, she thinks it's adorable, not that she'd ever be able to tell Arthur that without having him squeak and flail and turn bright red. But she agrees to move practice to the night before instead (of course!) and offers to let Nik know to spare Arthur his teasing.

He doesn't bother fretting about what to wear. If Francis doesn't like the way he dresses, he can go hang. In fact, Arthur dresses a bit punkier than normal, just to see if he can offend some of those snobbish artistic types. Ripped jeans, a black shirt, cuff bracelets and his nose ring. If he can get a few scowls, he'll call it a successful night.

Once he arrives at the on-campus art gallery, he relaxes a little. It's not as bad as he'd thought, a lot of the people here are clearly students, or else professors or parents. It is fairly crowded, though, and Arthur can't immediately see Francis. But he's not in any hurry, so he meanders his way around the edges of the room, looking at the artwork.

Paintings and drawings and prints are hung on the walls in frames, and statues and pottery stand on pedestals in small clusters here and there about the wide room. Arthur doesn't claim to know anything at all about art, so he just wanders, occasionally pausing to study a piece a little closer before shrugging and moving on.

A splash of red and blue catches his eye (Francis, so flamboyant, it could very well be him), and he makes his way over to see not Francis, but a young woman in a blue dress and multiple petticoats (Arthur wasn't even aware you can still _buy_ petticoats). She's standing talking to several people, in front of a small group of paintings that all seem to be abstract splashes of red and black and pink in every shade imaginable. They make Arthur think uncomfortably of a back alley after a glass too many of scotch.

"It's hard to get the blood to dry properly, and keep its colour when it does," she says, face and tone both perfectly solemn. "I've found that the larger rodents, such as rabbits and muskrats, work best. They also have the nicest fur."

Arthur wonders uneasily why she seems to be looking at his eyebrows. Does everyone know about his unnatural powers of rabbit attraction?

He quickly edges away, trying not to make it look like he's fleeing (because he isn't!) and begins looking for whatever pieces Francis has around here. He finds them eventually, a series of smaller sketches and paintings, leading up to a much larger framed oil painting.

Arthur has seen Francis' paintings of Joan of Arc before, and this one seems somehow different. It takes a moment of staring at the painting hanging on the wall before he realizes what it is.

Her expression is _intense_ as she stares out of the frame, passionate, determined, wind blown hair half hiding the strong line of her jaw, the sharp slant of her eyebrows. But her eyes are bright and clear, and Arthur finds himself struck by how much emotion can be conveyed in a smear of coloured brushstrokes.

Her eyes are green.

Arthur becomes aware, then, that Francis has stepped up beside him, looking up at the painting as well. They don't speak for a moment, until Arthur ventures, "I thought her eyes were blue."

Francis chuckles in a way that makes Arthur want to hit him. "Silly sourcils, she lived hundreds of years ago, no one knows what colour her eyes were."

"I _know_ that," Arthur scowls at him. "But when you paint her, you give her blue eyes, don't you?"

"Mm," Francis looks up at the painting again. "Yes, but I had something of a revelation while working on this one."

"Oh?" Arthur glances sideways at him, eyebrows creeping up.

"I paint Jeanne d'Arc, I have for years, because I wanted to capture the image of her spirit, her courage and strength. I thought I had achieved that. But really, I had just fallen into a routine, painting the same girl over and over, like a character. I was capturing the likeness of a person, but not her spirit like I wanted."

Arthur hums softly, resisting the urge to look at Francis again. "What changed?"

"I met you."

Arthur does turn to look at him then, staring in surprise, his heart suddenly beating so hard that he's sure Francis must be able to hear it. "What?"

Francis' lips curve up in a slight, secret smile. "I've never met anyone like you, Arthur. I first realized it when I saw you perform with the band that first time. You have passion. Jeanne's passion. Passion so hot it burns. If someone took away your music, you would probably die of heartbreak."

Arthur feels his face warming alarmingly. "It's the same bloody thing with you and your painting, frog," he says gruffly, and Francis chuckles softly and shrugs.

"Maybe. But it's easier to see it in someone else. Thinking about you on stage, I realized what passion truly looks like, and that I needed to change something about the way I painted Jeanne. So I gave her your eyes."

Arthur can feel his face heating up even further, but if Francis notices, he mercifully says nothing. Instead he says, rather too cheerfully, "You'll notice I did not, however, give her your eyebrows."

Arthur snarls and elbows him.

"...So," he says after a minute, and Arthur sounds distinctly uncomfortable about even the possibility of asking. "What are you going to do now? This show means you're graduating, right?"

Francis doesn't look at him, just continues regarding the painting as it hangs before them. "Well, the art scene is always alive in Paris." He pronounces it in French, all slurred ' _r_ 's and silent ' _s_ 's, and Arthur feels like his heart just dropped down to his toes. He still has years of med school ahead of him, and even after, will probably never leave London.

"Frog-"

Then Francis turns and smiles at him, bright and wide and full of mirth, and Arthur wonders why he never noticed how Francis' eyes sparkle and the bridge of his nose crinkles when he grins like that. "Silly lapin," he coos, and Arthur flushes, tensing in preparation to hit him in the jaw. "I was teasing. Old Professor Jenkins is hoping to retire; the university wants to hire me on to replace him. I was teaching half of his classes this semester anyway."

That freezes Arthur in place, cooling the anger that had been rising in him. "What?"

Francis laughs and reaches out, tugging lightly on the ring in Arthur's nose and making him squawk in indignation. "I have no plans to leave London, not while Matt and Sadiq are still here." He doesn't say ' _and you_ ', but the warm look in his eyes says it for him, and Arthur can feel himself blushing all the way to his ears.

"Well," he clears his throat awkwardly. "Good."

"Oui," Francis agrees. "Good."

His hand slips down, curling his fingers around Arthur's, loose enough that he can pull away if he wishes. Arthur turns nearly the same shade of red as the crazy lady's paintings, but he doesn't let go.

He tightens his grip instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little known fact; British denial is expressed through strikethroughs. It's true.
> 
> Arthur's guitar is, of course, named for Queen Victoria. I thought 'Elizabeth' would have been a tad bit too cliché.
> 
> Staff paper is paper that already has the lines for music notation printed on it, so you can just sit and start composing without pulling out a ruler and drawing a bajillion lines first.
> 
> For those who wonder what ßrïtøn might sound like, take a stroll over to Rhapsody or wherever you get your music and look up a German band called _**Orden Ogan**_. Pay special attention to their songs _All These Dark Years_ , _The Black Heart_ and of course, _We Are Pirates_. That's pretty much the style ßrïtøn uses, or so Arthur informs me.
> 
> The 'balcony scene' references both the original Shakespeare play _Romeo and Juliet_ and the modern Broadway musical remake, _West Side Story_. I'm not a fan of either. At all. I love Shakespeare, but I loathe R &J.
> 
> And so, here we leave Francis and Arthur. Well, not leave. They'll still be around, of course, and they'll have a fairly large role in the next story to come, which is _Reasons Three Point Harmony Usually Doesn't Work (And Why It Sometimes Does)_. In which we find out why Gilbert is in Spain, and hear more from Francis' ~*~*mysterious*~*~ upstairs neighbor.
> 
> I've had so much fun writing this, and thank you all _so much_ for all your kind comments. You know you can comment without having an AO3 account, right? Right? *Hint hint* Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you stick around for more of the series even though it won't focus on Fran and Art anymore. But if here is where it ends for you, then thank you for reading. I love you guys.


End file.
